Same Old Lang Syne - Alternate Ending
by DianaLecter
Summary: By request, alternate ending to Same Old Lang Syne. Hope this is more.. cheerful.. heh


Author's Note: This is not a sequel, a rewrite, or an extension. This is merely what could have happened after she got in that car, not necessarily what *did* happen. Option two, as it is. Actually, this was the original ending I had in mind, but the song persuaded me to finish it the way I did. Anyway, enjoy!  
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
~~~  
  
(One last time, her eyes averted the rearview mirror, and she caught a glance of the love of her life, standing in submissiveness against the night. Alone on the streets of Washington, watching her every move. There her drying eyes lingered until he was swallowed with darkness, and clouded with the onslaught of rain.)  
  
The previously assaulting heater failed her now, and in response, Starling felt her innards shiver. So powerful was the affect she could almost hear rattling within her stomach. Drawing in a deep breath, she shook her head, trying unsuccessfully to clear the spinning car of second thoughts, aided little by the feel of spilt wine colliding with her pant leg and the velvety feel of a small box in her palm.  
  
It was her initial and primary instinct to speed away as quick as possible. Perhaps the healthiest thing she could do, the best option for her mental state. Get away from the man she left on the street, standing impartially in the rain. However, Starling continued at a moderate speed, glancing with reluctant eyes to the rearview mirror every few seconds for confirmation that he was there.  
  
There, and not moving.  
  
There, and watching her.  
  
There, and standing with incessant neutrality, fixated eyes, and an implanted vestige of sadness. The breaths she took were deep and painful, only reminding her of their recent proximity, how his heart had beat against hers, how it felt to surrender completely for sweet seconds, if only for the hope of complete and utter freedom.  
  
Freedom. From what?  
  
Freedom from this. From this strenuous line of thinking. From institutionalized institution. The words she spoke only a few minutes before echoed mercilessly in her ear, and while she frowned and shook her head and tried to cast them away, they remained in no difference to her own suffering.  
  
"It wasn't the Bureau that made me. I made me. I am who I am, with or without the badge to prove it. I can't forget that. I can't let myself forget that. I can't let you let me forget it. I can't."  
  
It wasn't the Bureau that made her, but it did define her.  
  
Creation does not coincide with definition.  
  
Fair enough. Who was she? What was her definition? The FBI? No, not that anymore. She spent a decade breaking away from it. That was the institutionalized institution, that which captured and abused her, tampered and manipulated her. Demanded every ounce of her loyalty, yet abandoned her when judgment calls were in the making.  
  
Paul Krendler was dead, and to this day, her name haunted the halls as his only conspirator. The Brutus to his Caesar. This did not plague her as it had at first. Though the allegations were enough to suggest she sawed his head off herself, she was adapting pleasantly to the idea of being the one to end him. In some perverse way, she almost wished she had.  
  
There. A breech in ethics. A blasphemous thought of the dead, spoken of the dead, even when she was there when the dead became dead. Que sera. Whatever will be will be. One crack. Too significant to ignore, too minimal to apply to her so-called name.  
  
Her so-called name.  
  
A man stood on the sidewalk behind her, watchful, the only man to make sense in her life.  
  
Whatever will be will be.  
  
So here it was. Glumly, she glanced to her ring finger and felt something disturbing stir within her at the smiling emerald. The emerald which bound her to him, the emerald which defined *that* part of herself, the part that was Clarice and not the Former Agent Starling.  
  
Clarice and Starling were two different entities, she was realizing. No one she knew, including Ardelia Mapp, called her Clarice, at least not often. Not without a motive of wanting to successfully capture her attention. No, she was always Starling to them. Special Agent Starling. Starling, Clarice M. Never allowed to be her name, rather live up to the title her father set out for her.  
  
They addressed the part of her that wasn't her at all.  
  
A name? What's in a name?  
  
Clarrriiiiccceee. She was Clarice to him, and only him. The only person to call her by her given title with such comfort and regularity before him was her father. Her father.for they both saw passed the exterior. They both saw her for Clarice and not Starling. For what she could be as opposed to the sad truth of what she was. What she allowed herself to become.  
  
Starling was a family name. Clarice was her. All her.  
  
What would her father say?  
  
'Do what makes you happy, Clarice.'  
  
What made her happy? Did she think that for personal justification, or were those genuinely the instructions her father would issue, knowing what made her happy was the cause of such pain?  
  
Pain. Pain to whom?  
  
Pain to them. Pain to her enemies.  
  
Take that away. What was holding her back?  
  
Was it his lack of morality that bothered her so? His willingness to end life as though throwing out bad leftovers? If it wasn't satisfactory, it had to go.  
  
However, did it differ any from her willingness to end life?  
  
Evelda Drumgo. Benjamin Raspail.  
  
Jame Gumb. Inspector Pazzi.  
  
The four others killed at the raid. Officers Pembry and Boyle.  
  
Those in the stables of Verger's barn. Dr. Chilton and Paul Krendler.  
  
How far was her tally from meeting his own? Where did morality end and sadism dominate?  
  
Whom had he killed out of spite? Out of boredom? Out of general inhumanity?  
  
He had the power. There was certainly no question about that. Perhaps, then, his greatest restriction was not the lack of morality, but the abundance of it. How many could he have killed, might he wanted to kill, might he stopped himself from killing?  
  
Evil doings creates not evil people.  
  
Be just and fear not.  
  
Was she just? Clarice, not Starling, but Clarice. Had she done anything to regret? To resent? Anything that made her rethink her value as a human being? True, she was the murderer of a mother holding her child, but time had a strange affect on people. No longer did she hate herself for pulling the trigger. If she went back to change it, she would do no differently. It still came to a fundamental decision. Shoot or be shot. Bleed or make her bleed. Kill or be killed.  
  
Anything else she regretted? The lives she took in rescuing Dr. Lecter? No, for when it came to his life or theirs, she knew immediately who held her value. Her love.  
  
Kill or watch him be killed.  
  
Love or feel unloved.  
  
Be just and fear not.  
  
She was just. What did she fear?  
  
The first answer that came to mind was the most simple, the one she wanted to grasp, if only to revel in its astute and false vanity. Naturally, as a former FBI agent, there was nothing to fear. She had seen it all, lived it all, breathed it all. How many times had she stood in the face of danger and walked away? How many times would it have been easier, and all the more probable, to die rather than kill? How many times had she wanted to? How many times had she walked away from death, securing her outward façade with more insincerity while slowly dying on the inside? Every time she pulled that trigger, it took more than another life. It took herself as well. She was her own casualty. Her own victim. Her own murderer.  
  
And yet, that was a lie, for in this world the woman Clarice had much to fear, far beyond the limited sighting of the Former Agent Starling. In this world, there was no badge to shield her, no gun to wave in the face of those that could potentially do trouble. The protection and security once offered by the Bureau betrayed her, and she found, even in this uncertainty, that she didn't want it back. Not now, perhaps never again.  
  
That still didn't answer her question. What did she fear? What was there to fear?  
  
In the years preceding her birth, one of the most influential men in the twentieth century declared there was nothing to fear but fear itself. Now, sitting in the uncooperative heating system of her Mustang, she acknowledged what it was she had to grieve, to fear, to spend the rest of her life debating.  
  
On the surface, Starling supposed she should worry about her job, or lack thereof, but she didn't. She should worry about letting a convicted man walk once more when she was in the position of apprehending, or doing something other than what she did as an alternative, but she didn't. What did worry her was the knowledge that she left the man recognized as the love of her life on the sidewalk, most likely never to see him again. Loneliness. Did the prospect of being alone through life intimidate her? Not really, not while realizing that with his affection, even if it was from afar, that she would never feasibly be alone.  
  
Though sitting there in silence, even in the emotional unbalance of her current disposition, Starling acknowledged that in the confession she gave him this fateful December night, she cut the strings of any continued love life. The idea of going out with other men that could in no means measure to the one she left was disturbing and distasteful.  
  
Thirty-three years old and she was already accepting the life of an old maid. A spinster lady; one of those women that torments neighborhood children with a collection of rather obnoxious cats.  
  
It didn't bother her. Before entering the grocery store that evening, she had already come to such a realization, only not in the conscious state of mind.  
  
What did bother her was knowledge of the alternative.  
  
Starling sharply cut the brakes. In the progression of her thoughts, the car hadn't made it far from him. The rearview still reflected his image, standing against the rain. Watching her. Willing her to return, to reconsider, though knowing their last chance was spent. Wasted. Behind them.  
  
She drew in a deep breath, ignoring the aching spread across her chest, and closed her eyes to hide from him, even if he continued to watch her. The steering wheel, still chilled in the cold of the car, felt hot and placid in her grasp. Her foot was nailed to the brake, not listening to the messages she processed that distinctly instructed her to continue.  
  
Live and let live.  
  
No. Starling tilted her head in disagreement. There was no live and let live. Carpé Diem, perhaps. Seize the day. But no live and let live. However, there was live and let die, and that was what she had to grasp. Live for the future, and let what was in the past die.  
  
The past was dead. No reversal, no conventional method of turning around and redoing her mistakes, or his, for that matter. Despite what happened from here, there was the undying knowledge that she loved a madman, a killer, a cannibal. Whether or not she stood by his side physically took nothing away from her mentality of support. Loving him from a distance did nothing more for morality than loving him up close. There was the burden of action, but she found it was no longer a burden.  
  
It accomplished making them happy.  
  
So where did that leave her?  
  
Be just and fear not.  
  
Live and let die.  
  
Evil doings creates not evil people.  
  
That lent her pause and true consideration. Evil doings.she had done evil things. Did that constitute her as an evil individual? Was it any different than his alleged evil doings? When did life degrade itself to a system of moral virtues?  
  
But she had already gone through all this. Legalized killing as opposed to personal matters dealt with accordingly.  
  
By God, was she sympathizing? Understanding? Did that make her monster?  
  
Starling sighed her aggravation and opened her eyes, unaware of the rekindled tears that skated down her face in the light of a new epiphany. No, it didn't make her monster. No more one than she already was.  
  
They had lived together, breathed together, eaten together, drank together, killed together, and so much more. Levels of unexplored territory, the significant sessions of a good mind fuck. Already accomplished, already betrayed, already adulterated in this forsaken society.  
  
The Bureau *had* defined her, but it didn't anymore. As any good definition, time wore on the meaning, until perversely altering it to something unmentionable to children. Her story branched that crossroad. The good cop gone bad.  
  
She made herself, but she also unmade herself.  
  
And there was something else. The only part of that self-made creation that she wished to keep was the part that included him.  
  
Starling drew in a breath to fight rationality, to fight what her instincts screamed at her to do. As her eyes fluttered to the barren street ahead before traveling to his unchanged stature, she reveled in his inability to leave until he knew it was over.  
  
It wasn't over.  
  
Drawing in a breath, heart hammering in her chest, Starling released herself from the seatbelt and turned to the door. Without hesitation, though moving sluggishly, exercising restraint, she slid free of the car and once again to the night air. Though the vehicle had progressed from him, their proximity seemed no different than it had when she left.  
  
The steps she took toward him were slow and over-pronounced, though she felt physically powerless to increase her speed. While rain pelted her flimsy coat, she ignored it, it and everything. He stood there against the darkness as she left him, watching her.  
  
Then she was in front of him, perhaps a yard away, and she forced her eyes to meet his. There, Clarice bid a stern farewell to Special Agent Starling, to the family name. Defined by the title, living up to it, and issuing silent praise to slip from the boundaries of expectancy.  
  
And what would Daddy say?  
  
'Do what makes you happy, Clarice.'  
  
And so she watched Dr. Lecter, and he watched her back. Together, in the collective silence of the evening, they watched the sodden other, waiting for a twitch, a flicker, a breath to signify where there was to go from here.  
  
The silence was intolerable, and her pulse raced as she tasted the need for release, to voice her realization. Words were with her, taunting her, imploring her, but she couldn't speak, couldn't find the will to speak.  
  
The power of his gaze was nearly intolerable. She quivered, not sure what to expect. After all, her retreat hadn't suggested light for a reprise, for return. There were many things she came to understand, simply within her own revelations. Time gave her the power to reflect. A voice rose within her that forewarned she might be too late in her shortcomings, but she had to try.  
  
Finally, he accepted her reluctance to speak and drew in a breath. "Back so soon?"  
  
Words escaped her, forgoing all former restraints. "I need to say something," she announced.  
  
Something dark cascaded his eyes, nothing out of spite. Instead, it reflected the same forlorn sadness she left only a few minutes before. It pained her to view, mostly for she knew he would hide it under other circumstances, and furthermore to note it was nothing to enforce guilt. Perhaps the first truly human reaction he had offered to any situation, and still maintaining elegance and pride. Smiling softly, he held up a hand to stop her. "Please, Clarice," he said. "Our announcements and returns have bordered incurable this evening, wouldn't you say? Perhaps further professions should be reserved for another outing."  
  
"Hear me out," she begged, eyes widening with the proximity of rejection. "Please?"  
  
Dr. Lecter's eyes narrowed as he studied her, and after he read clearly that there was no further harm intended, he bristled to signify his approval to continue.  
  
Pursing her lips, Clarice shook her head, briefly closing her eyes. She was partially startled that he conceded without a fight, and now that the cup was in her grasp, she felt the same nervousness engulf her. Exhaling deeply, she reestablished eye contact, and confessed before she lost her will, "I'm sorry," with full conviction. There was a beat and no difference. "I apologized before, in the wine store. I meant that. And I mean this."  
  
"Clarice, you worry me. You traipsed through the rain on this cold evening to issue yet another apology?" the doctor replied sardonically, though his eyes were alight with newfound reasoning. She was hesitant to label it as hope. They were both too intelligent to hope.  
  
"That and." Clarice reclaimed her released breath and stepped forward. "I had -  
  
have - issues. Severe issues. I don't know who I am anymore. I said the Bureau didn't define me." She reclaimed unconfined air, risking a glance to his unmoving eyes and finding them impossible to read. "It doesn't. It never has. But you were right."  
  
At that, he chuckled softly. "That's a rather broad admission, isn't it? Certainly I couldn't have been right about *everything* we've discussed?" However, his eyes told her differently. They were dancing with this rekindled dialogue, this unspoken promise of a new beginning where their pasts and presents meant nothing for the future.  
  
Despite the propinquity of reprisal, Clarice found it within herself to pause and raise a brow, coursing excitedly in their verbal battle. "You know better than that," she accused.  
  
"Do I? By all means, elaborate."  
  
"Fine. You said I couldn't walk away for fear of losing myself, because that was already so if I loved you."  
  
A frown tickled his mouth. "I didn't mean to imply you had lost yourself. I thought I clarified that. That was merely how you perceived it, what you thought was the full and final outcome. What you thought you would lose."  
  
"And I was wrong. I couldn't see it, even if it was only a few minutes ago. I only saw it when I started to drive away from you."  
  
Dr. Lecter arched both brows. "Oh?"  
  
"I thought a lot in that car."  
  
"So I noticed."  
  
Conversation ceased for a minute, their gaze locking in a steadfast hold. The words on her mouth abruptly flew away, and she lost all sensibility of the excuse she was prepared to issue, the reason. Why she was still here, offering herself to him, even with the lack of constructive explanation.  
  
The ripples his eyes sent through her made her lose all sense of self- awareness, and she found herself mute. This was what she almost gave up, almost brought herself to drive away from. Verbal battles, endless staring contests, tenderness she couldn't encounter anywhere else. Flashes of their sweet seconds of unity were with her, teasing her, taunting her, as though screaming that it couldn't be. That even still, standing before him, it was too late.  
  
Then she couldn't look at him anymore. Clarice allowed her gaze to fall to her hands and on the emerald he gave her. With a sigh, she ran her thumb over the gem, muttering in bare audibility, "Thank you for the ring."  
  
"It was my pleasure." Without looking up, she knew his eyes had followed hers to rest on the band around her finger. "It pleases me to see you wear it."  
  
"Why wouldn't I wear it?"  
  
"Perhaps in reminder of me," Dr. Lecter answered simply. "People don't like reminders of their past. Those tidbits and insights that burn. I won't deny it would be the best for you to walk away from me now, Clarice, and pretend this never happened. That stopping and returning to issue your apology might have succeeded in accomplishing more harm than good for you. After all, what does it change? People apologize daily, but that doesn't stop them from committing the same so-called fault for which they are infinitely sorry over and over. You could, perhaps, try to put me out of your mind. But I couldn't stand the thought." His eyes landed suggestively on the ring again. "I suppose I conceived a way for that not to be an issue."  
  
"I'd never forget you. I carried you with me for ten years."  
  
"Ah, yes. However, when we parted following my release." Their eyes met once more, and she fought off a dry smile at his considerate though slightly humorous reference to his 'release,' as though it was the most natural thing for all prisoners to take the lives of two officers with them before reacquainting themselves with freedom. Dr. Lecter allowed her scrutiny in his choice of words for a minute before continuing, "you had not confronted yourself, your issues, the various dilemmas. At the time, I was not so forward concerning these matters."  
  
"No, you were just forward in other matters. Never this one. Not until now," she observed. "And time has passed."  
  
Dr. Lecter nodded, grinning at her insight, even if he made no reference to it. "That it has."  
  
"We have changed."  
  
"I have changed?" "I have changed?" An arched sardonic eyebrow challenged her.  
  
"Love changes people," she argued, standing her ground. "It's unavoidable. You're the same person but that part of you changes. Look at you. The infamous Hannibal the Cannibal.you should have killed me a long time ago, according to your own consensus standards."  
  
"You sound so sure." Dr. Lecter's eyes narrowed, obviously in distaste for her accusation. It only succeeded in furthering her point, but she was too discouraged at his defiance to notice. Starling was growing desperate for reassurance, for his support and understanding.  
  
Her voice strained to emphasize her conviction when she finally found the will to speak. "I -"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I haven't changed, but -" And then she couldn't stand it, the distance between them driving her over the edge. Standing in constant observation, examination, measured for her worth. Even though this, she didn't know where they stood, if her apology was accepted, or if he was toying with her for spite. Surged with impulse, she let out a throaty grunt and sealed the distance between them before nerve failed her, locking a grasp around his neck and pulling his head toward hers. Against his lips, she issued her plea, enjoying the shuddering breath he took, "Forgive me."  
  
"Clarice," he admonished, mouth still brushing hers with dialogue, though nothing more. "No need to disappoint ourselves twice in one evening. Don't do this out of obligation."  
  
"What obligation?"  
  
"Why are you here? Why didn't you drive away?"  
  
As they spoke, his arms came around her, securing her there in smooth defiance to his words that coached her to turn away. It didn't matter to her now. Revelations soared, the death of old convictions.  
  
Even now, trapped in his embrace, Clarice found reason to pause and express her irritation through gritted teeth. "I've told you!" she cried. "And told you, and told you! Because you were right! It took nearly losing you a third time to realize it." Reluctantly, Clarice pulled back a bit, as though granting him to see her eyes for honesty. "You said I feared losing myself because I love you. I did lose myself. I lost the part of myself that I hated." Listening to herself, she fought of a chuckle as her outrage calmed. Collective, she took a breath. "Don't make me get poetic."  
  
The light aligning his eyes was exciting, coinciding with relief that he allowed her to see, inexpressible here. "Oh pray continue, Special Agent Starling." To hear tease in his voice, when just seconds before the conversation was deathly serious, was reassuring in ways she would never understand. It seemed every nerve, every fiber of her being relaxed, and she knew for the first time in years that everything was going to be all right.  
  
At that, with this knowledge, Clarice jerked away playfully without fear of the consequences, though remained steadfast in his embrace. "Don't call me that again."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because she's not me. It was for too long. I'm not an agent anymore, nor do I intend to be. She doesn't exist. Don't get us confused."  
  
"That's a reasonable answer," he agreed, coaxing her head to near again. "What do you want now, Clarice?"  
  
She paused to consider, though the matter required no thought. As she pressed her lips to his, the hard splatter of rain once again turned to snow. He paused before rumbling into her, his mouth reading more of his relief, even what his eyes withheld. They stood in the sweet minutes of reunion, battling with their lips, even if their recent barrier was thin and short-lived. To her, it seemed like forever.  
  
Finally, they pulled away together, and she felt the warmth of his hand on her face. Clarice released a breath, bidding the pain that troubled her chest a discreet farewell.  
  
"Hannibal?"  
  
He smiled at the use of his name, before disguised with formalities, even when he asked her to address him with such lack of protocol. "Yes?"  
  
"Don't let me walk away again."  
  
"Don't forget asking this of me, therefore voiding your reason to fight when I enforce the request."  
  
"Always looking for an angle." With some reluctance, he pulled away, though they clasped hands, beginning the walk, together, back to her car.  
  
It was a minute or so before he spoke, but when he did, it made her flood with warmth and reassurance. "When I saw you walking back," he mused thoughtfully, "I dared not issue such blind optimism that you were returning to make that radical change of heart. You didn't give a fellow much to hope for with such a stinging retreat." A smile tugged on the corners of his mouth. "Yet you are full of surprises."  
  
They stopped then, there in the middle of the street, despite their damp clothing, clinging to cold skin. Dr. Lecter implored her eyes once more, as if seeking final verification for her truth, her revelation, before bringing their joined hands into view and pressing his lips to her skin. "I will give you what I can, Clarice," he decided a minute later. "I will do all I humanly can to make you happy. After all, it's only courteous to return the favor." He smiled to show his sincerity, and she knew it was true.  
  
Clarice had to swallow the urge to spring to tears once more, though she dared not look away. They met together once more in an unhurried kiss, softer than before, sensual and exploratory.  
  
Dr. Lecter pulled away with reluctance, just out of reach. "Tell me again."  
  
"Tell you what?"  
  
A dark undulation coursed through him, though the hint of play and never- ending teasing did not go unnoticed. "Clarice," he growled in warning.  
  
Failing to be threatened, she smiled in similar appreciation, withdrawing her answer for a minute, enjoying the flash of weary impatience behind his eyes before answering, "I love you."  
  
The retraction of irritation was not immediate, but soon, Dr. Lecter's eyes lost their burning flame and settled. An approving sigh escaped him, and he returned her smile winningly. "I am afeard, being in night, all this but a dream, too flattering-sweet to be substantial."  
  
"Shakespeare?"  
  
"You're on a role tonight," he complimented. "Though it's the truth. Having waited a decade to get this close, I fear the reprieve of victory, and what I might suffer for such explicit satisfaction."  
  
Clarice shook her head. "Firstly, you don't take high school English without having Romeo and Juliet beat senselessly in your system. Secondly, you worry too much."  
  
There was a chuckle. "Over analyzing my doom? I suppose." He turned to look at her once, even as they started moving again. "We're going to drive each other to lunacy."  
  
"I'm looking forward to it."  
  
"As am I."  
  
"Hannibal?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Let's go home."  
  
"Splendid idea."  
  
They paused once more briefly, to study each other and share a smile. One to birth them to a promising future. Starting tonight, the first night of forever. Arms entwined, they continued walking leisurely, despite the cold and the snow. And at that minute, it didn't matter that neither of them knew where home was. The physical location was unimportant. Now they were together, standing at the beginning, ignoring the closed doors behind them. The past was past, and the future was theirs.  
  
And as they slipped into the seclusion of her vehicle to start anew, the rain turned to snow once more. It fell bright and fresh across the streets of Washington, covering the tracks of yesterday to leave room for the footprints of tomorrow.  
  
FIN 


End file.
